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Prologue

Spring 1727

Neville landed on his hands and knees, his forehead lightly slapping against the stone-cold floor.

“Get comfortable, lad,” a foul, grating voice snarled from behind him. Then the door banged shut, the harsh noise making Neville flinch before darkness enveloped the tiny chamber.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The pounding of his heart was the only sound in the room until a soft sob ripped from his throat.

Neville sat up and gingerly ran a finger over his aching palm. “Ow…” The scrapes burned, blood smearing his fingers. “Mama…” he whispered into the darkness, knowing full-well there’d be no answer.

And yet…

“No,” came a voice from the deep, dark corner. “Not mama. There are no mothers here.”

Neville shot up but tripped over his feet and collapsed onto his rump. He caught himself on his palms and scraped them all over again. He hissed, slowly sliding back against the stone-cold floor. “W-w-who’s there?”

“Don’t worry, I shall not hurt you.” The voice was deep and dark like the night itself, echoing in the empty chamber.

Tears burned at the back of Neville’s eyes. “I-I… don’t believe you,” he whispered, his voice shaking.

“Good,” the voice said from the shadows, the word reverberating through the stone walls as if the speaker was nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Neville crawled backward, the aches in his palms forgotten, only fear driving his actions. He staggered back, his elbow bending painfully, but continued crawling away, until he encountered the thick, oak door.

His little shoulders shook from fear and desperation. His teeth chattered and his eyes closed as he turned away and pressed his cheek against the door.

He was stuck here.

“Do not believe anybody.” The voice sounded closer now. “That’s how you survive.”

Panic gripped Neville by the throat, and he could neither move nor speak. He peeked through his eyes and watched as a silhouette appeared before him.

It wasn’t the silhouette of a grown man. No. This was a boy—a willowy one at that. His clothes were torn, his face was covered in something dark, and his long, blond hair was tangled and disheveled. He looked like a vengeful ghost.

“He-elp!” Neville finally found his voice. He jumped to his feet and started banging on the door as hard as he could. Tears ran down his cheeks, obscuring his vision. “Somebody help me! Please!”

Arms hard as steel weaved around him, a hand covering his mouth before dragging Neville away from the door. Away from the only source of light coming through the crack under the door and into the darkness.

This is it. He was being dragged into hell, Neville was certain.

All the stories his mother had told him were true. The devil had come to take him to hell for he had not listened to her.

He would listen. He would. If he had just one more chance.

Neville kicked and screamed, trying to break free. He would not go to hell without fighting.

“Shh… quiet!” the voice said in his ear. “I am not the one you should be afraid of. They’ll beat you if you don’t calm down.”

Neville fell limp in the ghost boy’s arms, shaking. “Who is going to beat me? Demons?”

He scoffed, and then his arms loosened, setting Neville free. “Sit here.”

The ghost boy nudged him toward a haystack in the corner, sparsely illuminated by the moonlight shining from the tiny window just under the ceiling. Neville hadn’t noticed the window before. He hadn’t noticed many things before, as the room had seemed to be shrouded in complete darkness.

Neville obeyed and sat on the haystack. Not because he trusted the ghost boy, but because he was tired and scared, and he didn’t know what else to do. He wanted to go home to his mother. Only he couldn’t. Not anymore.